


A Brave New World

by LiterallyLen



Series: Show Me A Hero And I'll Write You A Tragedy [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/M, Post Series, Pre series, Within Series, character exploration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiterallyLen/pseuds/LiterallyLen
Summary: You’re your mother’s son in in all the soft lines and flat planes of your sculpted face. You have her winsome smile and they tell you that you have her heart too— one that’s so big that it throbs for all the hurt you can’t see but know is out there.But you’re not just her son, and that too is just as clear.ORPercy Jackson throughout his life.





	A Brave New World

.-

 

You’re your mother’s son in in all the soft lines and flat planes of your sculpted face. You have her winsome smile and they tell you that you have her heart too— one that’s so big that it throbs for all the hurt you can’t see but know is out there. 

But you’re not just her son, and that too is just as clear.

Sometimes you lace your hand into her’s, see that you both have long fingers and smooth nails, but where her skin is a gorgeous brown that makes you think of warmth and softness and reminds you of when she use to laugh right along with you while you taught her a new nursery rhyme you learned in pre-school that day. One where you had to shake your arms and bounce your legs, and point out all the body parts you know. (She would always play along and you love her for that). But your skin is shades lighter, neutral undertones of pinks and olives, where her’s are warm ones of yellow.

You hate it most days, hate the reminder that you have a father out there who walked out on the both of you. You’re young, sure, but you’re not an idiot. Your father isn’t lost out in sea, or whatever stupid little fib your mother told you the first night you saw Kyle B’s dad pick him up early one day. You know your father walked out on you guys because the kids in your school tell you as much with mean smiles and voices that act as if they know so much more.

You’re your mother’s son, and you think that’s the most important part of you.

Sometimes those very same kids who tell you that you’ve got no father also wrinkle their noses at you, say that Sally Jackson isn’t your ma, say that you’re a freak and a liar. Those are the days you come home with no smile on your face, or song in your heart. Those days you wait for her to come home from the candy shop and pick you up from Lynda next door’s. You know that she’s SuperWoman because your ma can always tell when it’s one of those days by only looking at you. 

“Oh Percy my boy, my love,” she croons, folding you into her arms. You’ve always been able to recall the smell of peppermint and snickerdoodle that danced on her skin— can taste it when you eat the ambrosia of the gods a decade later. 

“I hate school,” you declare with all your might, tiny fists clenched. 

“I know sweetheart, she says, sympathetic. 

She doesn’t have to ask why because you’re already telling her. You rant about their taunts, and the laughter, and how your teacher never believes it when you talk about the weird man who stands outside your gate during recess and tries to convince you to come play with him and his brothers. 

“But I never do mama because you always tell me never to talk to strangers.” 

She smiles down at you, but you can see the way something worrisome passes across her gentle brown eyes. 

“Shh, I know my love. I know.” 

She rocks back on the wooden chair, and you prop your head on her shoulder, eyes shut and hand knotted in her dark, curly hair. Everything is alright for now.

 

.-

 

You never go back to that school, but the incredulous looks never stop. 

 

.-

 

Gabe’s an ugly man inside and out. 

He’s selfish, and mean spirited and when he talks to your ma, short-tempered and condescending, it makes your skin crawl. 

Your mother is beautiful, that’s an objective truth you’ve always known. She’s small, with a heart shaped face, and big smile. Her eyes light up when she’s happy, and she has a voice that can sing any song, (Your favorite is when she sings Aretha).

Your mother is beautiful, and Gabe is ugly and you never understood the night a month after your seventh birthday when she sat you don and explained, with an excitement that confuses you to this day, that Gabe’s asked her to marry him.

“My love, can you believe it? We’re moving up town! No more cramped space or a heater that’s on the frits!”

“I like queens,” you sniff, affronted by the thought that your mother doesn’t.

“I know baby, but Gabe lives in Manhattan! We can get you into one of those schools with the posh uniforms and—“

“I hate school,” you interject, frowning, miffed that she’s somehow forgotten that very real truth.

Your mother’s smile goes thin, and it’s the first time you look at her and think desperate.

Desperate for you to be excited about this move. Desperate to make herself want it too. Desperate in ways you don’t even know yet.

“Please, my love, my boy. Be happy, this is good for us, I promise.”

You’re not happy, and you don’t pretend. But you tell your mother that if this is what she wants then you’ll want it too. 

She kisses your forehead, and you feel the wetness on her cheeks when she pulls you close.

“Such a brave boy,” she almost sobs. “Please Percy, my Percy, stay brave.”

You don’t say anything because you don’t understand the meaning behind it yet, but you do snake your arms around her, and squeeze just as tight.

You guys are almost the same size. You guys are both far too small for everything this brave new world is trying to throw your way.

 

.-

It’s kind of ridiculous to you that the first time you really knew violence, violence that was meant for you to feel and to paint your skin an ugly purple that fades to blue and green in the aftermath— is such a mundane experience.

It’s the spring break of your third grade year. your eighth birthday is in a few months, with it also marks the one year anniversary of Gabe becoming a permanent fixture in your life.

Your classmates— white kids with superiority complexes and trust funds for days— are jetting off to St Barts or The Hamptons or some other ridiculously lavish vacation spot. You’re slightly petty over it, but none of them have your ma, so you reckon it’s fair. 

You take the A train from your boarding school and ignore the strange lady who hisses at you while you walk off, but can’t help but marvel at how her hair literally looks like it’s made of feathers.

Gabe’s place— not really yours or your mother’s— smells like stale beer and when you step through the threshold it literally feels like a layer of smoke wraps around you and lodges in your throat.

It feels like you’re drowning with contempt. 

“Hey there wise guy,” is the first thing he says to you, shuffling over with his fat legs and protruding belly. You can’t help but liken him unfavorably to a pig. “You back?”

You never could stomach talking to him, especially without the buffer of your mother, so all you do is nod in acknowledgment.

“So how many classes you actually manage getting a passing grade in? Huh? Or you to busy acting up like a punk to bother??” He asks, snide and falling short of anything close to clever. 

You hate him. 

You’ve never known hatred before, having been brought up by a mother who always told you that loving thy’s enemy was always the strongest approach. A mother who held up men like Dr Martin Luther King and President Mandela as some of the best amongst us because they believed in peace and compassion and equality for all races and sexes and people. 

And you know, God do you know. 

You believe all the same things too, but Gabe’s a creature all his own, and you hate him, you do, and you’re not afraid to say as much.

You hate him.

You breathe in slow, decide not to respond and instead just walk past him to the tiny room that they’ve designated as yours for when you’re not at school.

“Oy, I’m talking to you kid.” He barks, anger sudden and grasp tight when he grabs for your arm. 

“Get off of me you pig!” You scream from somewhere inside you that you didn’t even know you had.

“Hey! Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your loser friends!” He bellows, jostling your arm with a good amount of force.

It’s a bit of a ridiculous sight you think. This man, all meaty hands and face like a bull’s, targeting a kid that’s a third of his size, and is built like a bird— narrow and lithe. But that doesn’t stop you from fighting back. It’s like you can feel the pulsing in your veins and how with every breath your fury only heightens. 

“Let go!” 

It’s quick and startling when his fat hand smacks across your face, making your teeth rattle and something like your spirit seep out of you.

You mildly think that it must be a nasty looking bruise because Gabe’s snarl falls to a confused pout, like his dumb brain couldn’t exactly figure out how he had done it. 

The sound of keys jingling can be heard through the door and you know as well as him that it’s your mother, finally returning from her shift at the candy shop to welcome you home with snickerdoodle hugs and sugar smiles.

A nasty, vindictive part of you revels in the moment. It’s excited over Gabe’s abrupt nervousness of your mother seeing what he’s done. You can’t wait to run up to her and show her the blotching of color on your face and then the both of you could finally move out of this place and back to queens and back to where it’s just the two of you against the world.

But you know it in your bones that she wouldn’t want to move back there, that for right or wrong she thinks that this life, one with Gabe, is somehow better than the one you use to live. And besides you meant it last year when you told her that if this’s what she wants you wouldn’t fight her on it. 

You love your mother and you’d do anything for her, that’ll never change.

So when she steps indoors and her beaming face morphs into one of horror, and Gabe’s looking at you with a strange mix of hatred and apology, you tip your chin up high and tell your mother about the nasty fall you had at the subway and how much you missed her and asked if you guys could have blue brownies tonight for dessert.

Your mother kisses you and Gabe never stops hitting you, and it’s okay because you’re staying brave, like you’re suppose to do.

 

.-

**Author's Note:**

> This might be a work that I am the most nervous to publish, only because I have adored this series since I was a ten year old girl who fell in love with this gorgeous world and beautiful characters and all the possibility. I have loved Percy Jackson for a decade now and I've had such fun writing this 
> 
> It would mean the world and stars to me if you let me know what you thought down below, truly and really. 
> 
> Oh, and yes I imagine Sally as a black woman, #sorryI'mNotSorry lol
> 
> All My Love  
> ~Len


End file.
